Annihilation Clash of Destiny

[The Lord of Hunger]

LOCATION: On his way to the ritual... threateningly so
OBJECTIVE: Devour it ALL
IMPORTANT LINKS: Sword #1 | Sword #2 | Armor | Jewel | Ring | Necklace | Gauntlet | DIII Gluttoneria | The guards | KRONOS
TAG: Darth Caedes | Darth Ayra | Revna Marr | Deonis Laythar | Darth Vinaze | Da'Razel | Dark Forces | Onrai | Darth Solipsis | Darth Carnifex | Gerwald Lechner | Srina Talon | Vireth | @open

​

So much effort, so much of his attention being put unto the ritual itself, disturbing it with his own inhuman, unnatural hunger...but it seemed the biggest factor in it all was distance. From this distance, his force drain could be interrupted just as easily, siphoned and redirected. Now matter how great the pull or the power, as long as the connection was not direct, 'THEY' could tamper with it, challenge and change his own power.

It was too soon to utilize the family legacy, no...he needed that for other things. It was his trump card, his means to stand against anyone with certainty...to utilize the Vele Jivanikas Jewel now would be a rather ill advised move from his end.

"There's tampering afoot," An almost mocking tone escaped the Lord of Hunger's lips, the amusement in his timbre further exagerated by the voicemodulator in his mask. He turned towards Onrai before they did what they had to do in this occassion. "I shall give them a little show as well."

Anchoring the continued force drain within his Hand of Avaritia was not a hard feat, as it was designed, crafted and forged to amplify the nature of the Lord of Hunger, and with this hunger, this insatiable lust for both life and the force, it came as a second nature to the Lord of Hunger, almost as passive and as natural to him as breathing would be to any normal human. Yet, He...was no ordinary human, if one could even call him such at this point to begin with. He had evolved, he had grown beyond humanity and into a being of death, dread and disease, of endless hunger and a theoretical limitless nature in the force.

His senses expanded, a few dozen meters at first, a few hundred meters when he began to find his focus, like a wave of cold and dread, his innate force drain would no longer just be solemnly directed towards the ritual, but would become an untargeted, relentless force. Not for long, barely a moment, a mere whisper in time, but enough for nearby patrols to be decimated and leave behind no more than empty husks, just enough for those strong within the force to feel the pull, the unnatural cold that would reminisce of the Nether, of the afterlife...of the dread that came paired with the expediency of the end.

All this was for one singular and simple purpose, to push back, to gain momentum and to breach the defenses the ritual seemed to have, the direct strength of the Lord of Hunger would be tested, as he utilized his focus, that moment in which he had expanded his senses and had turned his force drain into an all around devouring feast, back into a singularly focused attack, this time enhanced and invigorated by the strength gained in that mere moment, expending this momentary boost of life force to overwhelm the runes, the inscriptions, the sith sorcery of the ritual chamber. He was done trying to do this all from a distance and wait for any to try and stop him. His actions had been built on his arrogance, on his believe to remain hidden...they had been foolish, he had been foolish. They could stop him, thwart him and be general nuissances to him as long as he remained on the background.

But no more, it was time to attack the ritual from a much more intimate position, to make these cultists, these believers in false idols and a wayward sith emperor to know just how ravenous he could be. Through the force, power flowed noth from the ritual towards him and immediately this power was utilized to bombard the ritual chamber's protections. if that wasn't enough, should Onrai which to utilize her anti-force capabilities to a much larger extend, there was now a proper guideline towards the ritual chamber...

From his position, a whisper would reach the chamber, perhaps the only thing for now which would potentially be able to penetrate the defenses...

"The Lord of Hunger Cometh, dread the gluttonous who feast on souls."

 

[Naamino Zuukamano]

Outfit:
Belt of Strength, Field Com-Scan Link,
Weal & Woe
Kor'ethyr Issued Kainate Trooper Armor
Armor Permissions

TAGS: Darth Caedes | Revna Marr | Haro Aven | Srina Talon | Lina Ovmar | Gerwald Lechner | Deonis Laythar |

​

Senses aflame with adrenaline and activity, Naamino showed not an ounce of hesitation. Once their party split and the King bid Haro guide them with the data and clearance provided, the hulking zabrak was true to his purpose. He set himself between Haro and any opposition that came before them.

At times, their King and his fearsome lady pulled ahead— their strange sorcery, particularly that of Caedes, was awesome to behold. Naami's approach was far more straight forward, with Weal activated in his right hand to cut down foes that managed to draw near and Force blast raining from his left each time there was a clear ranged shot.

Haro kept their momentum possible by slicing the most direct route through conflict riddled corridors and Naami remained very near to ensure none could strike at the lean mechanic without going through him first. Despite the zabrak's orders to keep watch over Revna as well, the young man found it difficult to believe she needed a guard.

Though they'd exerted themselves, Naami hardly showed signs of strain. His breathing was steady and his senses had adjusted to the dull roar of suffering which echoed all around. In fact, his physical form felt bolstered by the upwelling of darkness in this place. It came easily to him here, his blasts atomizing troopers with brutal efficiency while his reflexes felt lightning fast.

"Something approaches… You feel it too?" Haro overheard the King ask."I do, yes." Revna agreed."We are soon to have company.”"Someone is coming to stand against us."

Their pace slowed as the royal pair shared a moment and a zing of chill ran down Naami's central horns. He'd sensed the same disturbance they spoke of, if a bit belatedly. Moments later, new challengers faced them. Haro slipped behind the zabrak's guard even as the young warrior took a few steps forward, reaching for his second saber.

Get a load of this guy, Naami thought dryly, Talking like his boss owns the patent on darkness.

Dutifully though, Naamino held his tongue and readied for a more significant challenge than they'd yet faced this day. As the others ignited weapons, the zabrak did the same with Woe. Now dual wielding, the young man settled into a Juyo stance wherein he maintained an active shift from foot to foot while keeping his quads engaged and ready.

"Copy," he rumbled through group comms, "Your will, King?"

Though he'd like to leap right into the fray of things, he had Haro to think about and Darth Caedes might yet wish to trade words with this interloper. The zabrak was also rightly wary of sorcerers and their propensity for tricks— all the more reason to await guidance. Given the sign to attack though, Naamino would act without further pause.

 

[Corazona von Ascania]

Allies | Mykel Dawson
Opposition | Luvaen Malstadt
​

Luvaen might've struggled against the invisible bindings of the Force, but being ensnared did little to temper his will.

In fact, the threat of being trapped only served to intensify his anger and fear. Feelings that a Dark sider could fashion into deadly weapons. As he reached out toward the Rodian's mind, the Force surged through the hall with the raw intensity of a serpent's strike.

The Rodian stiffened, his hold faltering on the Sith as the cold, industrial setting before him warped into something…different.

Something nauseatingly familiar in its agony.

This was Coruscant. Not now, but then. When the Dark Empire had come. He was small, just a child tucked into the far corner of the kitchen as his parents were struck down by crimson blades.

Perhaps the Dark Side Elite hadn't seen the boy paralyzed in the shadows, trying to make himself as small and quiet as possible. Perhaps they had, and elected to let this moment hang like a cruel thread.

In a stroke of irony, the Rodian's two allies - the Chiss and the Zabrak - appeared to take up the same positions as those who'd slaughtered his family.

"Gareth? Gareth!" The Zabrak called while shaking the Rodian by his shoulder. "Snap out of it!"

Gareth's large, pupiless eyes didn't blink. Swirls of galaxy-blue and white light faded into something dim, something grave - and then something frantic as the Zabrak grasped his shoulder.

With a trembling four-fingered hand, Gareth drew his lightsaber. His mouth pursed, brow furrowing deeply in distress as the image his ally bled into the face of his enemy, still caught in the violent memory Luvaen had dredged to the surface. With a desperate cry of confusion and anguish, the Rodian activated his blade - sending a beam of blue plasma right through the Zabrak's chest.

The Chiss, who had been exchanging blows with Luvaen, suddenly threw her head back in the direction of the male Jedi.

"Orron!"

 

[Connel Vanagor]

What is left
UNDISCLOSED
LOCATION - Death Star III

Michael, Gabriel, Azrael, Sariel, Raphael, Jeremiel, Connel, Raguel
[Any text in brackets signifies comm-link usage and not face to face conversation]

The blast from the armory came first — a muted rumble that chased through the ventilation shafts like thunder in metal clouds. Connel didn’t need to look back to know the vault was gone. The detonated powercells would reduce everything behind him to molten ruin; any pursuit would be ash. The Wookiees were free, the armory silent. That was enough.

He crawled forward, each movement silent, deliberate. Below him, he could hear Matsu’s tram—a streak of humming energy—cutting through the corridors like a comet. He felt her in the Force: focused, luminous, vibrating through the molecular chaos she called amusement.

He didn’t smile, but there was something close to it in the quiet.

She was drawing attention, which meant he could remove it.

When her tram merged with another—metal grinding, soldiers shouting—Connel dropped from the duct high above. The air shimmered with static from her displacement wave, the sound masking his landing perfectly. Night and Day flashed only once, twin lines of motion in the darkness.

By the time the surviving soldiers realized there was another Jedi among them, the corridor was already painted in flashes of violet and gold. The last thing they saw was a mask with no eyes.

He moved through the wreckage as Matsu’s tram veered deeper into the station. She didn’t need protection, but she’d need room to work—and Connel could give her that.

He reached out through the Force, feeling the structural tension of the tram tunnel ahead, then flicked a grenade from his new bandolier. It arced, clinked once, then detonated perfectly in sync with a pulse of kinetic Force, collapsing a service bulkhead behind her tram. The pursuing squads were sealed off, systems shorting, alarms screaming.

Connel exhaled, settling into the stillness that followed.

Through the Force link, faint and calm as breath, he let a single thought reach her:

~“One track cleared. Keep moving.”~

She would know his tone—dry, understated, the same as ever.

He could already sense more troops ahead and something darker beyond them. Matsu’s path would take her straight into it, and he meant to arrive first.

Connel dropped into the maintenance tunnel parallel to hers, twin sabers unlit, boots silent on the durasteel. Behind him, the fire from the armory still glowed faintly, a dying star marking where he had been. Ahead, the light of Matsu Ike pulsed like a beacon through the Force.

Matsu Ike • OPEN
Personal Effects - Omega Squad Loadouts - Shadow Sanctuary - Enterprise​

 

[Arris Windrun]

Allies: Mercy | Hasuras Na-Gerra | Vestra Tane
Opp: Darth Solipsis | Meliant | Dark Forces
Others: Romi Jade | Inosuke Ashina

Gerra seemed disinclined to intervene on his brother's behalf and was caught in the cyborg's eye as he examined the door.

Arris holstered her weapon as soon as Meliant burst into flames.

Sheesh... "What the fuck are you?" She asked rather rhetorically.

Yes, she was curious, but she also lacked the mental bandwidth or mood to engage a man now hissing at her. Then, the doors to the Throne room began to part, revealing first the echo of battle.

"How the fuck did she get here before we did?" she asked Arris, incredulous, as a wisened old Jedi launched herself at Solipsis.

Arris blinked. "Huh? Why am I supposed to--"

“Mercy, Meliant. Enough. The way is open.”

The cyborg guessed she didn't deserve any warning then. She accepted his interruption and followed them inside, after Mercy and Gerra both, while the fiery brother spat angrily at them after his humiliation. She gave the smoke-man a quick, sidelong glance before crossing the threshold.

"Let us know when you're done playing with your food, Solipsis," she called out, her voice carrying easily through the charged air. "A Kaggath doesn't end because you get bored. I'm here to continue what I started at the Conclave."

Okay then...

Arris paced the periphery as Mercy pursued gadgets and curios, while the Vahlan observed the scene at hand. She had no sense of who the Jedi were and only recognized Solipsis for the second time outside of HoloNet broadcasts. He was exactly as she remembered: violent and terrifying in presence, but this time they weren't on Desevro - this time the Emperor could not disengage without sacrificing everything he had to gain.

Beneath it all, Arris began to subtly manipulate her own cybernetics as a means of exercising her connection to the Force while pacing.

 

[Hasuras Na-Gerra]

Ah, brother.

Gerra shook his head ruefully at the smoldering armor buried in the wall.

“A lesson for your next incarnation: fireproof the suit.”

Hasuras should be masters of flame, wielders of the Ember of Vahl. His brother still needed time to contemplate the futility of his current path. Very well.

Gerra strode in and came to a stop within the throne room, glancing around as a pair of Jedi he did not recognize fought the Emperor. Their combat shook the room.

“Hm.”

They seemed busy. Best to leave them to it. Why would he complain if Jedi kept the man in charge preoccupied? They had a battle station to steal.

Mercy seemed content to wait her turn. Gerra snorted and let his immense sword rest on his shoulder.

“Windrun, you yet again prove invaluable. Would you locate the command overrides my brother spoke of? Vestra and I will not let harm come to you as you work.”

He glanced at the other rogue Sith, Tane.

Meliant Sars Sarad Arris Windrun Mercy Vestra Tane Darth Solipsis Romi Jade Inosuke Ashina

@Open to Any Opponents

 

[Eina L'lerim-Vandiir]

Information

The Light of Ashla, Champion and Avatar of Ashla ​

"Galactic Common" | <"High Nelvaanian"> | ["Essonian"] | ~ telepathic communication ~ | << comm. channel >> ​

Objective: Stop the ritual
Location: Death Star III
Equipment: Sverð Fyrstr (weapons) | Ljósspjót (spear) | Skrúð Engill Fyrstr (armour) || Empyrean gland | OPBC-01m

Writing With
Darth Vinaze | Closed
Tags
Heinrich Faust | Darth Solipsis | Ibaris Varanin | Deonis Laythar | Kann | Cesare Demici | Aphon | Da'Razel | Janus Vipsanius | Open​

~ There are no gods, only very powerful Force entities, or Oversouls. ~ the woman answered the man telepathically.

Eina had never known where this strong atheistic viewpoint had come from. She knew both her father and her mother had been atheists, so it was not hard to suppose she had inherited that strand from their souls. She did not call to mind the earlier conversations that had passed between her and Vinaze, though perhaps she had said this to the man before. In truth, even Eina had not considered it so important. Now was the time to reach the place where the man stood. She ignored the rest of Vinaze’s words, aware that he only sought to rile her. That tack seldom worked on a former Valkyrja.

The moment she was about to create the rift, her motion halted and sorrow and pain filled her blue eyes. Someone was devouring souls in that place; not merely consuming bodies, but feasting upon spirits and Eina felt those souls being eaten. Beside that presence she also recognised a former foe, Onrai: the Sith who had caused her mother such suffering. As a champion of Ashla, the woman now had to weigh what to do and it was no light decision.

In any other circumstance she would probably have leapt after Onrai and her companion, for souls were in danger; but she already knew what Solipsis was capable of. If the ritual currently underway succeeded, perhaps millions or even billions of souls would be annihilated and never reach the Netherworld. The woman did not know the ritual’s intent, and so she had to choose between saving a few hundred, or perhaps a few million, souls. Yes; she did not speak of life in the usual way, for to her, to the Valkyrja and to the Children of Ashla, death was only a new beginning and need not be mourned.

Yet if a soul was destroyed… that was final. Nothing would remain. A deceased being’s soul passed into the Netherworld, where it became part of the Force, could exist for ever, perhaps remain itself or be transformed into something else. There were so many possibilities beyond, of which so few knew. But if a soul perished, it would never taste new life, never know those opportunities. Bearing this in mind, Eina decided to remain with the ritual and beside Darth Vinaze, and afterwards to go on to confront Darth Solipsis as well.

With that thought she reached once more into the Force and created the small rift in the fabric of reality, then stepped through. It was so slight and she made them so deftly that it healed and vanished the instant she crossed. She appeared near Vinaze and looked at the man. Now it was time to answer his earlier words.

"We have fought many times, yet you still know nothing of me, Vinaze. I have not sworn myself to the destruction of any being or to destroy anything. My oath is to protect and to heal souls, and to help guide them into the Netherworld. I was not and am not a Jedi, nor any kind of Force-user of the Realspace. I am an avatar and champion of Ashla, the Light of Ashla, a former Valkyrja. My task is healing and guarding, not killing or annihilation as the Sith or the Jedi practise." she said softly, but with resolve. "My other duty is to return those souls to the Netherworld who belong there. Like you, or the master you serve, Darth Solipsis ."

This was why she was here, though so few truly understood her or what she was. But Gei, Hei, and even Pietro and Isla were among those who did.

 

[Dodhorn Harert]

Information

Alor of Clan Harert, Sith Lord, Hellwolf of Mandalore​

"Galactic Common" | <"Mandalorian or ur-Kittât"> | ~ telepathic communication ~ | << comm. channel >> ​

Objective: Defend the DS III.
Location: Aboard of the DS III
Equipment: Beskar'gam | 2x Beskad | 2x Su'arnr be Tracyn | 1x red blade lightsaber || OPBC-01m

Allies
Darth Solipsis | Darth Vinaze | Ibaris Varanin | Deonis Laythar | Kann | Cesare Demici | Aphon | Da'Razel | Janus Vipsanius | Open
Enemies
Scherezade deWinter | Open​

The woman savoured two of the most exquisite things in the universe aboard the Death Star III. One was a scent; the scent of blood; the other was the countless symphony of sounds that accompanied each heartbeat, the flow of blood through the body, whispering as it coursed through the veins. For the Hellwolf, nothing more was needed to feel truly alive. Perhaps only one thing, the awareness that she could hunt down any foe and taste their blood. The very thought made her hunger stir, her yearning for that taste deepening with every breath.

For a while, Dodhorn observed the ritual. She did not take part in it this time, though her son, Voldran, was there. She felt there were already enough participants for such ceremonies, so she turned her attention instead to defence; to the hunt, which was far more entertaining to her. To stalk the prey, and to bring it down. Only one thing she regretted: that her old companion of the Death’s Hand, Kralmus Orr , had been dead for over twenty years. Battles and hunts had always been more amusing with the man at her side. They had shared their pleasures well; he was a cannibal, so he took the flesh of the prey, while she, being Sangnir, drank its blood. The perfect division of labour.

Sometimes, the woman wondered whether she should find someone to replace Kralmus. Though Khamul Kryze was her lover, and they had a son together, and although she had always believed they could turn any battlefield into a delightful bloodbath and she did enjoy fighting alongside him; he was still not Kralmus. Perhaps she had clung to the cannibal so fiercely because he was the one who had freed her from her slumber of several millennia. No, there had never been romance between them; only professional and culinary partnership, nothing more.

While she watched the vitea - the flow of blood - with satisfaction, both through the Force and beyond it, she suddenly sensed something. For now, nothing seemed dangerous enough to draw the Hellwolf from her sanctum… yet she felt an intriguing aura and scent through the Force. That presence caught her attention. She drained the blood from her wine glass, set it down, then placed her helmet upon her head and in a "shimmer" of teleportation, drew closer to the source.

Here, the woman could sense the mingled aromas of countless kinds of blood even more vividly and it awakened the predator within her once more. She moved along the corridor in a calm, unhurried stride; and when she drew near the other woman, she spoke in a composed, almost teasing tone.

"Well, well, well, darling… I must say, upon this vast station, there is no one else who carries so many scents of different blood as you. You’ve made me curious." Her voice was mocking, condescending, yet laced with a primordial threat and hunger that pulsed beneath each word.

She wore Mandalorian armour, marked with the emblem of a wolf’s head. Her weapons were traditional Mandalorian, with a lightsabre at her side. Her movements were refined, noble; yet within them lingered the grace of a predator, the poise of a huntress. Scherezade might have seen something similar before, in Ingrid’s stance; but this woman was altogether different from the Sith Princess’s dear friend.

 

[Kyrothian Ravoch]

Wrath of God

Acier Moonbound ​

Onto the next chapter. The non-Padawan had been exiled and Ravoch's gaze rested upon the dark hole that separated them. Torn plates and cables cluttered its sides with electric sparks spluttering from one of the damaged wiring. Soon, that would become the dominant sound, for the intense clashing of sabers had died off and soon, Ravoch extinguished his blade as well.

His armoured arm rose as he reached for his forehead, still throbbing from the headbutt. The move had been as bold as it was stupid, for it was likely to do far more to the smaller opponent than it would do to Ravoch. Regardless of the pain, the Lord pushed forth, moving towards the gap with a steady pace, clearly marked by his heels clicking against the metallic floor.

By now, he could easily identify the ashen-haired Rebel's signature in the force. His foe could likely do the same to him. Ravoch did not seem to see much point in hiding now. Instead he simply marched on through the dark corridor. It would not be long before he appeared from around the corner of where Ace stood, his figure tall, impossibly muscular and drenched in the blue hues projected by lightsaber.

Wordlessly, he kept pushing at a brisk pace. Casually, almost with a sense of nonchalance, the Sith made a sweeping motion with his armoured arm, causing a minute hatch to rip from a nearby console before being flung towards Ace like a projectile. Whilst the hatch was still in motion, Ravoch's powerful legs propelled him into action as he launched towards the ashen-haired Rebel in a leap. Although he could easily have drifted into an Ataru-influenced offence at this point, Ravoch did not appear to feel a need to deviate from the Form he had leaned on so far. His feet would plant firmly into the floor beneath him, steady and killing all momentum he could otherwise have carried into the offensive he was about to launch.

The crimson blade ignited mid swing, just as he landed. It would crash down hard against his foe. A quick flurry of precise attacks followed - this was not at all anything dramatic - it was a sequence of Makashi-based swings aimed at arms and shoulders. By all accounts, it was likely very similar to something most learners would encounter when learning the basics of blocking following the first Form. It was as if designed to ease a Shii-Cho and Djem So practitioner into a comfortable rythm. His attacks were just threatening enough to require a response, angled precisely so that there would always be an obvious answer. Eventually, it would become abundantly clear that the assault's lacking edge was by design. Ravoch's intent had never been to land a hit - it had been to push his opponent back. Not through an overwhelming offence, but through precise footwork and a tailor made offence.

Ace had been ushered to show what he was capable of offensively, mentally and through the force. Light testing had been done defensively too, but this would go even further. Ravoch was set on pushing him back and cutting off his angles of escape if he tried slipping away. Instead, there was just one question to be answered: What would he do if he got overwhelmed? Ravoch knew what he was going to do. If the ashen-haired Rebel's back was against the wall, he would seek to lock their sabers and push until either the Ace's arms, or the wall, started to buckle. All while letting his calm and steady tone carry three simple question: "Who are you? What, exactly, did you do? What horrors have you inflicted?" The questions would repeat, every chance he got.

 

[Odria Kaelthron]

Attention: Darth Solipsis | Meliant | Sars Sarad | Arris Windrun
Mercy | Vestra Tane | Romi Jade | Inosuke Ashina​

Spoiler: tl;dr Action Summary

• By the will of Solipsis, the Star Destroyer Sovereign's Pride crashes into the Death Star at an angle
• The impact shears off the Emperor's Tower from the station, trapping the people in the throne room inside

--------------------------

​

The Death Star was a sphere, and yet it had a pinnacle.

Whether it was a simple repetition of the previous incarnation’s design or an indication that Solipsis’s vanity echoed that of Palpatine before him, the throne room of the Death Star III was much like that of the Death Star II in location - it lay within the Emperor’s Tower, elevated above the battle station’s surface. It was hardly a tactically optimal location for protecting the man whose ambitions had set this entire conflict in motion; the ritual chamber, deep in the station’s innermost bowels, was far more protected. It spoke instead of confidence, arrogance, projection of power.

It was the throne of a man who feared no enemy - exposed, beckoning challengers.

And challengers had indeed come, standing in that chamber in defiance of the man who sought total galactic domination. There was nowhere for him to retreat to; they stood between Solipsis and the only exit, outnumbering him, their blades and mystic powers marshaled against him. Jedi and Sith alike sought to strike him down before, fed by the ritual below, he could become more powerful than they could possibly imagine. But “cornered” is a state of mind… and in truth, everything was proceeding exactly as the Emperor had foreseen. The pawns had moved into place on the dejarik board.

Now Solipsis would flip the table on exactly who had cornered whom…

… and he would do it with an unlikely, unwitting tool.

--------------------------​

The battered Star Destroyer Sovereign’s Pride fell back toward Imperial lines, preparing to make its jump back to safety at Byss. Task Force Kaelthron had fought the good fight, first opening the way for the Empire by breaching the Atrisian Breakwater, then fighting valiantly against the twin Confederate fleet groups of Ronhar Tane and Amalia Visconti | Mira Rhory . In the end, though, numbers - and the advanced technology of the TIC battlecruisers - had won out. More than half of the task force had been annihilated, and the Sovereign's Pride had nearly followed suit.

Only the mercy of the enemy, recognizing the task force's valor, had allowed it to survive.

Although damage and casualty reports continued to pour in from all decks, Governor Odria Kaelthron permitted herself a sigh of relief. She had begun to believe that she had flown too close to the sun this time, gambled too riskily with her own life. If Governor Visconti had wanted her dead, there wasn't a damned thing Kaelthron could have done to prevent the Confederation fleets from finishing her off. She was bruised and battered, and her command was much reduced, but she was alive. Soon she would be on her way back to Byss; let the rest of the Imperial Navy carry on.

The Pride fell back along the corridor that Visconti had permitted it to take, retreating toward Imperial lines - back to the vanjervalis chain it had formed around the Death Star. Not that Odria had any intention of actually joining the defensive formation; she was out of here as soon as the calculations for the jump were complete and the hyperdrive - still spooling back up after the tactical microjump she'd executed earlier - was ready. In fact, that was taking an awfully long time, even for a larger ship. "Ensign?" Odria asked, still facing the viewport. "Where are we on that jump?"

There was no response. The moment stretched, awkwardly long, as the Death Star grew closer.

Irritated, Odria turned around. "I asked you a question, Ensign."

"The Sun..." came the response. It was muffled, but sounded oddly reverent, like some kind of devotional chant. The young officer Odria had dubbed Ensign Curly - she'd never bothered to learn his name, nicknaming him based on his wavy red locks - was hunched over his duty station, his back to her. "What's that?" Odria hobbled over to him, limping on a badly bruised hip... and stopped short, covering her mouth in astonished horror. Ensign Curly's duty station was covered in blood. The youth turned to look at her, a blissful, placid smile plastered on his young face.

He had driven his code cylinder into each of his eyes. Blood poured down his face.

"He is the Sun," the ensign babbled, voice full of awe and wonder. "The Scouring Flame, the One who holds fate in His orbit... His will be done. The Sun... The Sun... Thesunthesunthesunthesunthesun..." He trailed off, babbling under his breath. His fingers, stained with gore, flew over the controls. In the viewport, the Death Star grew larger and larger. "Ensign, stop!" Odria ordered, but Curly didn't seem to hear her. He continued his work... and so did the rest of the bridge crew, all around him. "The Sun..." they babbled, voices rising in eerie unison.

"All hands, emergency stop!" Odria bellowed into her comlink...

... but the channel was dead, and she was left shouting into a symphony of static.

Stepping forward and forcing steel into her spine, Odria drew her sidearm. Taking aim, she shot Ensign Curly directly through the forehead, a perfectly placed bolt that ventilated his cranium in a straight line out the back. But even though she could see the duty station behind him through the ruins of his head, he refused to collapse; his fingers still twitched on the controls, his lips still mumbled weirdly. Odria could see on his monitor that the hyperdrive calculations had been abandoned. Instead, they were on a strange collision course with the Death Star...

... one that would scrape across a section of its surface that was suddenly left unshielded.

What bizarre witchery was this? Odria was no believer in god-kings and stayed far away from the Church of the Dark Side's mysticism... but she couldn't deny that something otherworldly had seized control of her ship. She lunged forward, trying to shove Curly's corpse out of the station's chair, but he was like iron; she bounced off, landing painfully on the deck plating and bruising her back. As she struggled for breath, the Death Star grew ever larger in the viewport. "B... brace for impact," she wheezed into the comm. But the channel was still utterly dead.

The fanatically-programmed minds of the other officers had been compromised...

... overtaken by the dark will of the Emperor they worshipped as nothing short of a living god.

--------------------------
​

The vast bulk of the Death Star would be little harmed by collisions with ships so much smaller than it was. The frigates Sars Sarad had destroyed with his tractor beam trick had impacted its surface, but what was four hundred meters of ship compared to a sphere with a surface area of more than eighty million kilometers? A surface deck had been breached. Troops had gone flying out into space. A few defenses had been damaged. But in the scheme of this vast station, it was almost beneath notice. And the impact of an 1800-meter Star Destroyer did only a little more.

The Sovereign's Pride did not crash directly into the Death Star. It came in on an oddly careful angle, like a strigil scraping along the station's surface. The crew, their brainwashed minds coopted by a more powerful will and the dark sorcery it directed, made minute adjustements to the Star Destroyer's course right up until the moment of impact, working in eerie, impossible unison. And so the came in at the perfect trajectory to slam its dagger-like starboard side against the base of the Emperor's Tower... and shear the tower free of the Death Star, smashing turbolifts and structural supports.

As the Sovereign's Pride rebounded from the collision, the Emperor's Tower drifted away...

... suddenly disconnected from the Death Star entirely, drawn into its orbit...

... leaving all who stood inside the throne room with no retreat.

They were locked in with the Emperor, adrift in space.

 

[Da'Razel]

Objective 3
DEATH STAR III - HAD ABBADON

Indirect Tag: Talon Draven | Shannic Wulf | Darth Carnifex | Darth Ayra | Kann | Darth Nefaron

Equipment: The Furnance | The Kotjontû
NPCs: 8x Karsta Raka | 2x Green Warden
​

Chapter 3: The Scheiterhaufen
Direct Tag: Phaelissia | Lirka Ka | Helix
​

Kandora grasped the severity of their situation first.

These unidentified infidels were a blight upon their sacred pyre, the bonfire of corpses they had raised as tribute to their Saint, a form of pyromancy thought lost wihtin the tombs of Athiss. They required a swift and severe response.

Her visual specs, still overlaid with the live sensor readings of the Green Warden, warned her of a sudden surge of energy building within the enemy's system, fast enough to trigger an instinctive retreat.

With serene grace, powered by synthetic muscle, Kandora pushed herself from the ground, vaulting backward from her crouch. She darted away from the cargo crates that had sheltered her thus far.

Seconds later, even at the increased distance, the explosive blast that followed slammed her onto her back. Crimson robes gliding across the polished durasteel floor as shrapnel skittered around her. The booming whistle of the detonation dissipated as a fading echo into the chamber.

The plump, almost tender-looking cyborg had concealed a deceptively powerful arsenal.

The fire pit at the center of the crosswalk stirred, flames bowing their heads and snapping toward the source of disruption, as though enraged by the blaster fire and explosions. It roared like a waking giant, roused by the tumult eager to crush the pest that provoked it.

Kandora bit her lip and tasted copper. The shock had scrambled parts of her auspex array, momentarily severing her neural link to the Warden.

Unbeknownst to her, she had been flung perilously close to the last intruder, Helix one who had seized upon the chaos to advance in silence.

She whipped up her blaster pistol and took aim at Phaelissia once more, burst fire, center mass to head and neck. She needed to destroy this, female illusion of walking artillery, before it could become a true threat.

She ignored the other silhouette that lunged into the fray like a crazed beast her internal combat calculus defining it as a secondary concern. One, she trusted Gazim to handle.

"Brother Salafir, awaken them now!" she cried, panic seeping into her voice at the thought of failing their holy charge.

The Green Warden, its chassis glowing in flashes of white with each volley of uninterrupted fire, continued its onslaught. Its targeting sensors, momentarily confused by the cyborgs evasive maneuvers, recalibrated the moment she retaliated and resumed the storm of blaster fire.

Following the rigid protocols hardwired into its logic core, the machine maintained its barrage even as the foe raised her palm to retaliate. Gears at its knees hissed and split apart, releasing two self-guided micro-missiles. Their heads, slaved to its targeting system, arced wide before curving inward towards the synthetic being.

If undisturbed, the impact of her counterattack would decapitate the construct outright, tearing its frame apart even through Agrinium shielding mesh and Insulated circuit safety layers. Few things could endure a full-powered blast of such magnitude.

With a final shriek of corrupted code, the towering machine exploded in a blinding glare of plasma and fire.

Behind it, the blackened remains of human char twitched and trembled in the booming aftermath of the droids end. Yet the flames, now burning brighter and wilder, licked greedily toward their source.

"Qorit tyûk! Qorit vi midwan korr!" "

Salafir's chant crescendoed as he cast his arms wide as to embrace the smoldering carcasses before him. His eyes rolled back until only the whites remained, tears of blood tracing down his mask to fall as singular drops onto the sizzling floor.

The frigid breath of the Dark Side rippled through the congregation, a shivering exhale that crawled down their backs like oversized arachnids.

Even the giant Gazim, one untouched by the gifts of the Force, felt the sudden, shuddering shift that seized the air. Smoke and human ash billowed thickly, mingling with the incense of burnt flesh. Visibility dwindled to mere meters before the haze swallowed all shape and color.

Gazim caught a glimpse of the figure rushing toward him, something masculine, feline, armored.

The zealot's defense was as primitive as his attacker was. Leveling his massive polearm horizontally, he charged to meet the foe head-on, hoping to catch and hurl them back, fully aware that his guard could only deflect a frontal strike.

Plumes of smoke and streams of fire coiled and writhed like the fanged mauls of a Hyrda. The bonfire blazed higher, its heart alive with violent motion.

Something was happening within its heart, stirring, forming, birthing something that should not exist.

Chapter 2: The Sentinel of the shrine
Direct Tag: Thurion Heavenshield | The Lord of Hunger | Deonis Laythar | Darth Vinaze | Vireth | Janus Vipsanius | Voldran Molf | Eina L'lerim-Vandiir | Onrai | Dodhorn Harert ​

Kilometers away, across the Death Star's vast corridors, like a kindling Da'Razel stirred.

He felt nothing of the tug-of-war between the Sith Lords warring over the vortex of energy inside and outside the ritual chamber. He felt instead a single, radiant spark, a soul of fire, igniting into existence, breathing its first breath.

"My dear children... you have woken it, finally."

Spoiler: NPC Infomation

Name: Kandora

• Force User: No
• Appearance: Scarred Echani woman, ritual burns across face and arms, synthetic augmentations, wears red robes over armored scout gear
• Strengths: Tactical awareness, precision, speed
• Weaknesses: Lacking strenght, heavily reliant on implants
• Equipment: Data-slate, blaster carbine, echani ritual dagger, heavy cybernetic implants

Location: The Scheiterhaufen | Speech

---

Name: Gazim

• Force User: No
• Appearance: Towering Devaronian, large size, body covered in ritual brands, wears heavy crude armour
• Strengths: Immense brute strength and endurance, brutal pain tolerance
• Weaknesses: Slow, lacks subtlety and tactical depth
• Equipment: Massive Vibro-axe, carbonite steel gauntlets

Location: The Scheiterhaufen | Speech

---

Name: Salafir

• Force User: Yes
• Appearance: Young Chagrian male, skin tattooed with Sith runes, scorched robes.
• Strengths: Talented Dark Sider, excellent swordsmanship.
• Weaknesses: Young, overconfident, unstable in prolonged combat.
• Equipment: Twin Dolovite blades, medium cortosis weaved armour

Location: The Scheiterhaufen | Speech

---

Name: Tú

• Force User: Yes
• Appearance: Givin, skeletal humanoid, draped in crimson robes
• Strengths: Sith Alchemist, supportive healer and enhancer for zealots
• Weaknesses: Physically fragile, dependent on his lantern for full potency
• Equipment: Crystadurium Ritual lantern, sacrificial dagger, Ultrachrome line robe

Location: Sentinel of the shrine | Speech

---

Name: Inquisitor Rael Orvax

• Force User: Yes
• Appearance: Human male of Brentaal IV, encased in segmented armour, black-and-crimson robes, a visored helm
• Strengths: Formidable melee combatant, disciplined tactician, strong endurance
• Weaknesses: Heavy and slow, over protective of his cult, easily angered
• Equipment: Electro-scythe, Dallorian and Ultrachrome alloy armour

Location: Sentinel of the shrine | Speech

---

Model: Green Warden

Location: 1x Sentinel of the shrine & 1x The Scheiterhaufen

​

 

[Sars Sarad]

NPC's: Dark Forces​

---

A Disturbance resonated through the force.

Before Sarad could access the turbolift he felt a vibration from the impact of the Freighters against the outer shell of the Death Star but as implied the scale of the station ensured the damage was almost beneath notice.

There was a static that filled his comms.

Sarad voice would reach out for Hasuras Na-Gerra aware that something had occurred without knowing the details or that the Emperor's Tower was now drifting through space following the collision of the Star Destroyer…

"It seems fate ensures our paths are separate, Warlord."

…a pause, his left arm raising so that he could lay a palm against the entry to the turbolift…

"I wish you well in your future endeavors."

Now what?

No matter who he killed or what he destroyed it seemed improbable that Sarad could disable the Death Star.

Nor could he take command of the Battle Station and commandeer it as the group he'd entered with originally had intended.

Alas.

A Trooper, his blaster raised and the trigger squeezed fell lifeless, slumping against a corridor after a snap of Sarad's lightsaber had sent the blasterfire back at him.

Turning away from the turbolift that had been his route to ascend towards the very tower that had been scraped from the Death Star's exterior like a tick Sarad ventured down another corridor.

Traveling deeper into the belly of the beast.

 

[Meliant]

DEATH STAR III
HALLWAY OUTSIDE THE THRONE ROOM -> THE UNFORGIVING VOID OF SPACE

Attn: Odria Kaelthron
CC: Hasuras Na-Gerra Mercy Vestra Tane Arris Windrun Darth Solipsis Romi Jade Dark Forces

​

At some point, the fire died out. Krayt's breath burned intensely but quickly, or perhaps Meliant knew some mystic art that let him suppress the flames after a fashion. It nevertheless left his shell charged, singed, and the occupant himself thoroughly aggrieved - not to mention still lodged in the wall and its innards.​

Fortunately (or unfortunately, as it would soon come to pass), the same heat that left him in this sorry state had also loosened him from the wall. He pulled out his other arm, and from there had sufficient momentum to rip himself out completely. He landed face-first on the durasteel floor. Smoke rose in lazy spirals from his prone form. Some of it was even him.​

​

"Yessss…" He hissed into the panels, worming his palms under his chest and pushing himself half-up. Spite alone animated him, indistinguishable from the Dark Side.​

​

Beyond the threshold, he could hear the beginnings of a titanic clash. Indeed, the air had grown heavy as if charged by a storm. Fools! Cretins! They thought they had seen the last of Meliant. He'd show them. He'd-​

​

The whole world vibrated with such violence as he had never felt before. First was the impact, but worse still came the constant horrible shrieking of steel grinding against steel - something thundering closer and closer with relentless strength.​

​

Something was cutting straight through the station.​

​

"No, no, no," he could have been yelling or mumbling. Meliant was inaudible above the apocalyptic clamor either way. "No! No, no!"​

​

This had no perceptible effect on what next unfolded: Sovereign's Pride completed its amputation of the Emperor's tower and exposed the hallway to space. A screaming (and perfectly inaudible) Meliant was soon among the shower of corpses and debris sent hurtling into the void.​

 

[Maera Dren]

Location: Hangar - Death Star III
Tags: Renn Vizsla

Maera felt the satisfying crack as her boot struck home. The jolt ran up through her leg, but the armor didn't give. He moved just enough, however, to buy her a breath before the hiss came.

Something fast, low, and metallic cut through the smoke. Before she could pivot clear, the cable wrapped tight around her leg. The pull was instant and vicious, dragging her brutally off balance. Her gauntlet scraped the deck as she caught herself mid-slide, the tension biting deep into the armor joint. The magnetic lock held fast, burning through her servos with a sharp, strained whine.

"Damn it," she hissed through her modulator, her hand fumbling down to her thigh. Her fingers closed around the hilt of her vibroknife, and the blade snapped to life with a high, buzzing growl. She slashed downward, sawing through the taut cable. Sparks leapt up as the magnetic filament resisted, but with one final wrench, the line snapped free, the recoil singing through the air.

Maera pushed back to her feet, every motion heavy. Her armor hissed with pressure leaks, and smoke curled off her pauldrons. Across the haze, the Warmaster was already flying forward, his jetpack flaring. The sheer force of his advance shook the air, yet she refused to retreat.

Her stance shifted, low and coiled. She reversed the vibroknife in her grip, the blade catching the flicker of firelight as he closed the distance. When he came in hard, she met him, sidestepping directly into his momentum. Her knife flashed up toward the seam under his arm, then twisted low toward his thigh. These were precision strikes, meant to find the slightest weakness between the plates. She pivoted again, angling for his exposed flank, driving the blade hard against the beskar barrier.

The hangar roared around them, but Maera heard only the hum of her blade and the relentless pounding of her pulse, locked in the storm's center with the Warmaster bearing down.

 

[Phaelissia]

Location: Chamber - Death Star III
Thread Objective: Clash of Destiny
Mission Objective: Stop the ritual.
SO: Lirka Ka Helix
GE: Da'Razel

The missiles from the droid’s final assault before its explosive end were the first and most immediate threat. Phaelissia’s enhanced cognition broke into a cascade of parallel processes, allowing her to register the hiss of the launchers, the trajectory arcs of the missiles, and their threat profile all at once. Simultaneously, she caught the cultist rising from the shockwave in her periphery, a blaster pistol leveled with lethal intent.

With so many threats directed against her at once, Phaelissia had only split-seconds to act.

Her gaze lit up. Twinned beams of icy, ionized CryoBan lanced out from her eyes, flash-freezing and shattering the missiles mid-flight before they could impact. Unfortunately, the action left her exposed to the cultist’s fire. With a dancer’s fluid pivot, she cut laterally, evading the bolts aimed for her head and neck. Two others, however, struck her squarely in the chest, the impacts forcing a sharp hiss through gritted teeth. Once more, her bodysuit’s layered defenses proved resilient. The bolts’ energy deflected and dissipated against the conformal shielding in a brilliant corona of dissipated energy, leaving only a dull, warm thrum against her sternum. Where the droid’s rifle had bruised, the pistol fire was merely an irritant.

A low, venomous growl escaped from plush lips, synthetic eyes narrowing into slits of crystalline fury. She honed in on the cultist, gaze lighting up an icy hue. Her left hand became a blur, a chakram leaping from her grasp in a silvered arc. The disc screamed through the air on a high, diagonal trajectory, aimed to bury itself in the woman’s forehead from just over twenty meters away. A second one followed immediately after in an underhand throw, the blade spinning low and parallel to the ground on trajectory to strike the cultist in her knees. As her weapons flew, Phaelissia herself became a rush of motion, her boots carrying her in a swift, circular arc around her target in a deadly orbit intended to unravel the cultist’s aim and resolve!

Spoiler: Loadout

• Frostfire Azalea
  
  • Arms
    
    • FAE/M-02 Energized Forearm Vibroblade Mk. II - R
• Purifying Lash
• Freezing Fates II
• Cybernetics and Augmentations

 

[Darth Avida]

Pray To God​

It could've been the crawling sensation just beneath the surface of her skin, the heat that filled her chest and the burning in her lungs, or the icy finger-like sensation that trailed down her spine - anything. This was the moment it all hinged on, she could taste it. There was a subtle shock at the base of the back of her skull as she dropped towards the floor, as he directed her down, and her head tilted slightly to the side as she cast her gaze to the right. There was a chill that swept over the entirety of the surface of her body and time seemed to slow as her breathing hitched. She couldn't hear the discontent Krasskorr the Maw had vocalized, the sound of which was overcome by the chaos surrounding that brief moment in time, but she could feel the frustration coming off of him like palpable waves of heat. Even as she raced down she felt her hands do what she'd been taught expressly to never do in the heat of battle.

She let go of her lightsaber.

Her shoulder was struck suddenly and gouged into by a cluster of spikes in the same moment her fingers unfurled and palm raised, bare. In that moment time nearly stood still as she felt the darkness channel through her into her hand as she became consciously aware of the injury. She felt her teeth grit against each other, her jaw clenched tight, and then followed through with what had occurred to her on instinct - power, raw and ugly, burst from her palm with an incredible fury flung directly into the man's center-mass as her perception of time abruptly accelerated. Suddenly everything was moving so fast, her own body flung away from him from the sheer force of the impact against Krasskor's tail and thagomizer, and the moment the tips of the spikes were ripped from their purchase by virtue of her being knocked away by his strike she felt something shift and crack near her shoulder, in her arm, and whatever breath she had left escaped from her lips in a shrill shriek as she rolled along the floor in her curled-up state.

She drew on the pain, however, and ended up some distance away in an awkward crouch with her good hand clutching at the exposed wound in her wounded shoulder and the tattered remains of what had been a sleeve covering it.

 

[Yorunarr Ahan-Yan'Sharlim]

TAGS
Lilianna L'lerim Cesare Demici Kael Varnok

WRATH OF GOD
4

​

ACCESS HALLWAY (INFIRMARY GREEN), ABOARD THE DEATH STAR III,
APPROACHING ATRISIA, CORE WORLD TERRITORIES (903 ABY)

~=You've grown… your voice has become so manly… Tancred, I've missed you so terribly!=~​

In Tancred's heart. he knew it had been too long since they parted ways on Nirauan, and though his voice was no longer capable of swaying hearts by chants alone, something wondrous had taken hold in his vocal tone since, taking on a powerful, otherworldly quality in the young Saint's liturgies. After years of endless self-insistence, L'lerim had chosen to continue his divine vocation after all, to continue speaking the language of his soul, of his power and the Light alike. Such was a choral Ashlan wonder, a miracle for that exact reason, and in his decision to rise after falling to the lows of loss and diminishment, revealed a power in starting again.

Defiance of which, as much as the young Saint was loathe to admit it, embodied everything of the old Woad's triumph under duress - wondrous for the sheer weight the Tattered Regent still carried on his shoulders.

Time (and the Galaxy itself) had changed much about the young Saint, but the things that had not changed were the lengths to which Tancred would have endeavoured for family, this was known to Barran from the offset, but it had taken time for Yorunarr to uncover his student's unshifting trait. Fortunately for L'lerim's sake, the old Novanian was counting on exactly that in his plan, even hoping the lad would understand early on, and that he did. Missing his own family as much as Tancred was, Yorunarr was unable to keep his empathy from taking over, fully aware of the things that were likely to befall Lilia, in the still-likely event that their rescue-attempt had failed.

~=I think there's a Jedi here… and someone has requested an evacuation route…=~
~=Ah, the route, as far as I can tell, is marked,"PriorityMED2". Also, if the Jedi complies, they get a free ride home.... Jokes aside, I've missed you too - along with everyone else. We all just want you home again, safe and sound.=~
​

Sensing that enough had been said on his part, Tancred's mind returned to the miles-deep access tunnel ahead, sensing for threats whilst the old Novanian worked to keep the ambulance-speeder on it's energy-track, and not exactly excelling for all the confidence he carried in starting it's engines. None too shabby for an old, half-mad shaman of the forest, having never once sat behind the wheel or handlebars of a modern vehicle before that night, but in the eyes of the ever-modernizing peoples of the stars, neither Tancred nor Yorunarr could doubt the latter was abysmally inept, especially as according to driving standards across the Galaxy.

The young Saint had even offered to take the driver's seat along the way, and on multiple occasions, but the old Priest-King was adamant in his commitment to,"Taming this impish little contraption!", every time, much to L'lerim's horror and chagrin alike. However, despite the comically-polite protestations, the old Novanian was closing the distance remarkably well, especially under the circumstance of ineptitude, with an engine predicament that could only be described as dangerously close to red-lining catastrophe. Though fortunately for driver and co-pilot alike, Yorunarr would go on to discover the utility of braking, granting Tancred enough peace of mind to inquire,'Okay, we're not gonna die.... Whats the plan from here then?', still beholden to the habit of fearfully looking out the passenger-side window. whilst balling his hands into fists

'We've tuned it by ear so far, no point adding structure to things we can't even predict short-notice.'
'Shaman logic, no choice but to go along with it!... Quick question, have you ever stressed out His Majesty like this?'
'HA!!!! More than you will ever know, same went for old Erskine too.'

​

The infiltration to the infirmary was fraught with challengers in it's first phase, but when the unlikely duo advanced ever closer from there, the process became rather quiet, too quiet to be considered a coincidence. Both Yorunarr and Tancred alike were aware of the implications, understanding well enough that their enemies were likely,"Clearing the Floor", for someone much stronger than all who defied the duo's advance before, and before long, the unlikely duo would find them waiting in the shadows at the last recharging-station. Sensing the bloodthirsty intent first, the Force-Signatures would soon follow, but to their credit, the hidden assailants had achieved an advanced level of power-suppression.

Excelling enough, within means of profiency that were still unknown by then, to hide their presence until the instant that close-proximity exposed them; and yet, the old Novanian would soon find these attributes were merely the tip of the iceberg, though he could sense already that something was deeply wrong on arrival, thus presenting Yorunarr with a difficult decision of his own to make. Left with the option of swallowing his pride by asking for help, choosing Tancred's (and by default, his own) well-being over that of his dear sister, and the option to kick pride to the kerb with lasting finality, letting Tancred take the wheel once and for all.

​

But for the deposed Priest-King of Archais, the right choice had never been so easy to make.

'Tancred, when I get out, I'll need you to take my place at the wheel.... Pretend we don't notice.'
'Wait, are you-?'
'Head in the fething game, Tancred.... When I nod, thats my signal to floor it - understand?!'

​

Opening the door, extending it out all the way as he casually lit a cigarra, the old man looked back once more to Tancred, throwing a reassuring wink at dewy-eyed anguish before casting the lighter to the dashboard countertop, jumping out as he exhaled his first drag. Then before deigning to inhale another, the old Novanian punched the refuelling-prompt button, playing his part in assuring the young Aavenian's approach to the infirmary, and only then did Yorunarr see fit to inhale again. Enjoying one last moment of peace before mayhem, his calm before the storm, granting enough time to mutter,'No other way, Tancred.... You should take the leap, there's a chance I might be waiting on your way back.', trailing off for one last chuckle before he finally grasped Raindancer for the impending task.

With head bowed, with shoulders hunched and teeth clenched, the old Novanian backed out from the driver's side for the last time, and just in time to hear a sustaining beep on the fuelling-charger behind him, marking Yorunarr's moment to nod in Tancred's general direction. The dreaded parting signal, and it was given without a moment's pause, and despite the young Saint's hesitation, the Godseer was still confident in the lad's odds of success. Clan Barran's inherent propensity for gambling against the most-daunting odds (along with their learned knack for winning against the odds) had long-since rubbed off on Yorunarr, learning from the Goidels that some gambles were always worth risking it all to win, and that some, even, were worth losing fantastically, by the same, courageous means.

​

'They deserve death, Yorunarr!'

[CLUNK]
[FZZZZZ]
[ssssSSSSS - FRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrrrr......]

I'll handle life's monsters, so that the boy may earn his spurs.
​

As the medical speeder rushed into the tunnel ahead, Yorunarr's choice would be made apparent to his long-expected assailants, all of whom would be stunned silent; not only for the fact they let their quarry escape, almost assuring a greater challenge for Demici's subordinates to overcome, but also for the fact they had (against all better judgement) expected self-preservation would take precedence in the mind of the old Novanian. Thinking him too old to consider risking life and limb, thinking that he had suffered too much in life to imagine a scenario that depicted him struggling for glory, clueless as to the lengths to which Yorunarr was perpetually ready to leap, a lesson they were still learning in enraged silence by then.

'Forgive my young friend, he only speaks from a wounded heart.... The lad has just about had it with grief, losing those who matter most - ring any bells, hm?'

​

As a near-instant reaction, Yorunarr could feel small flutters of answering emotion, shufflings and shifts of uncomfortable twitch-responses, a clear, polarizing reaction to the cutting words of cigarra-smoking Shaman, but the silence remained. None were speaking, none were even advancing from their positions, but the Priest-King could feel every presence around him, skirting the outer walls of the domed substation as he continued to smoke at an uninterrupted, leisurely pace. Whatever the old Novanian had alluded toward, whatever he had hinted at, intentionally or otherwise, Yorunarr could tell it had struck close to home for more than half of the attending assassins.

Something about this collective felt familiar somehow, drawing all kinds of inward, speculative thoughts on who these people might have been, in the current year and decades-bygone alike, not putting it past Demici's ilk to reach into the past for inspiration. Winning formulas were never wasted among those who survived the previous century's wars, and for as long as every known survivor continued to reach into history's vast wellspring, every known faction would continue to complicate warfare to messy, slaughterous extreme. Eventualities of which, according to Yorunarr's ilk, always carried a certain aroma, like smelling a fragrance of which one knew was decades-discontinued.

As it just so happened, the old Novanian's nose would wrinkle up that day, right there and then, just like he did during the Second Siege of New Carannia. It was the most uncanny feeling to recall, and so clearly, that the last time he experienced such a moment could be seen with ease, almost as if it had drawn in vivid detail in the mind. Even going so far as to feel his stomach turn at the realisation, killing all appetite for the rest of his cigarra as his gaze returned to (that which would soon become-) his dim-lit arena, prompting Yorunarr to exclaim,'Alright then, traitors! Shall we begin?!', stubbing out a smoke he had been savouring earnestly until that taste-souring moment.

'IA, IA!!!! LET FORTUNE FAVOUR THE YOUTH!!!!'

The old make sacrifices for the young all the time, its a simple fact of life.
But mark my words, Melarran. I intend to survive this one.

 

[Acier Moonbound]

Location: Death Star III

Equipment:
Field Gear | Lightsaber

Ace didn't flinch when the hatch screamed free of its bolts. He sliced through it mid-air, sparks bursting across his face. The flash barely died before Ravoch was already on him. Crimson light split the corridor. Ace barely caught the first strike as it rattled through his forearms.

Then the second came, and the third. Clean, precise, surgical. Not wild. Not reckless. Measured. Ace defended against the flurry, meeting each strike with his lightsaber. Only, he recognized it too late. Ravoch wasn't trying to kill him. He was corralling him.

Ace unwittingly gave ground. The confined corridor forced him tight against the wall, and still the Sith pressed, the Makashi rhythm baiting him into predictability. Every feint too obvious to fall for, every opening just wide enough to tempt an attack.

Ace parried low, twisted, struck high. Shii-Cho flow into a Djem So hammer. Ravoch met each motion like he'd seen it all before. The Sith had read Ace. Learned him. It was like when Aris Noble had warned him - he'd become predictable.

He pivoted hard, switching stance, trying to break the rhythm. His blade came around in a violent, two-handed arc meant to drive Ravoch back but the Lord absorbed it with that maddening stillness, like a mountain choosing not to move. Their blades locked again. Ace leaned in, muscles burning, their eyes locked across the searing line of plasma. Ravoch's strength was unreal, every inch of pressure calibrated to control.

Then came his words, now cutting deeper than any strike. The hum of their blades drowned everything else. Ravoch's voice coiled around him, digging under skin, under scars.

What had he done? He saw flashes: Dathomir, Clan Vethrisa in ruin, the look in his mother's eyes before the end. The guilt clawed up his throat like smoke. And for a second, his grip faltered. Just a fraction. But then his mind snapped back. The fury that had driven him through every loss, every mistake, ignited again.

Ace unleashed a raw and guttural primal scream, the Force surging up from his core. His muscles locked for an instant, then released. The corridor buckled. The air itself seemed to fold inward before bursting outward in a single, violent wave. The durasteel wall behind him cracked like glass under pressure, fissures spiderwebbing through the metal as a concussive blast ripped through the narrow space.

The Force Repulse hit with the weight of a detonation. Crates and debris tore from the floor, smashing into walls and ceiling, lights exploding in a storm of sparks. Then came the secondary impact; a metallic scream and a low, rising hiss. One of the gas canisters stacked along the corridor had ruptured, the seal splitting in the shockwave. A second later, the escaping vapor ignited against a live wire.

The explosion bloomed white and orange, swallowing half the corridor in fire. The blast tore through the side wall, sending a chunk of plating and debris crashing into the adjoining structure. Ace threw up a hand, subconsciously bracing himself with the Force as the wave of heat slammed into him. Shards of steel and fragments of machinery rained across his path, but when the smoke cleared, the wall beside him was peeled open like a wound.

Beyond it, light spilled through the smoke. Harsh, artificial, fluorescent. Rows of bunks. Lockers. Armor stands. It was a barracks. Ace staggered once, then straightened, wiping soot from his brow. He could already hear the alarms beginning to wail, the sharp click of blaster safeties from soldiers who hadn't yet realized what they were about to face.

Through the haze, the blue glow of his lightsaber burned steady. Ravoch was still there, too. He could still feel him. But now they weren't alone. Ace turned toward the breach, shoulders squared. Then, they opened fire. Ace's lightsaber snapped up defending the opening barrage as he stepped forward toward the barracks - expecting Ravoch to follow.

Kyrothian Ravoch​